


A Bard's Tale of the Dragonborn

by Nalledia



Series: A Bard's Tale Series [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: 1x awkward af elf in love, Action/Adventure, Bard's College, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Forsworn plot, Gen, M/M, Mages Guild, Multi, Multiple Dragonborns, Prejudice, Racism, Romance, Slow Burn, Stormcloaks, Tar has a bitch of a temper when he feels like it, Thalmor plot, Thieves Guild, brother!Ondolemar, but will eventually, long and convoluted backstory I dont wanna share, only by a little, pfft here does the tagging fail again, pre-Alduin, references to TES: IV, smut in the distant chapters far away from now, the rating will go up later, well one is like a halfdragonborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-09 09:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13478742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nalledia/pseuds/Nalledia
Summary: High Elf Tawarthion travels to Skyrim to join the Bard's College in 4E175, but a rebellion in the Reach - later known as the Markarth Incident - and its consequences opens up a whole new destiny for the mer. He is flung into the Civil War headfirst, and the World-Eater is an unwelcome curveball. This is how a bard became the Dragonborn





	1. The Beginning, or Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> I do not own Skyrim or any of the NPCs, Quests or game dialog. The rest of the characters are mine. Enjoy and please review!  
> Please read this Author’s Note below, while not urgent, it does put some matters in context. Mostly.
> 
> To those who have read The Gauldur Legend and For the Jester’s Heart, who are wondering why Tawarthion is a stuck-up, super irritated and arrogant grump and so weak with his magic… this is set some couple years before Helgen is hit, and Tar had given up practicing magic for some 146 years before picking it up again 7 years before the present – 4E175-176. Both the other stories are at/after 4E201, when he has joined the College and actively started working on improving his magic again. I would also like to add that he was born under the Atronach, thus he lacks the ability to regenerate magicka on his own. I’ve also treated spellcasting and magicka reserves like any other skill – without continued use/exercise/practice/whatever you want to call it, it weakens and fades. Sure, you remember how, but you have to build back to your former strengths and abilities. I think that explains the gist of it – as for why he stopped…. I hope to address that as well, if not in his story, then at least in a drawing I have in mind I will post to my deviantART account. I’ll put the link in my profile as soon as I’ve drawn it. (Lol I should just commission this my art skills have dropped since I started this fic).
> 
> Why have I started his story so early, and not just from 4E201, you may wonder? I wanted to establish/explore his relationships with people at the Bard’s College, Ulfric Stormcloak and his Thalmor friends/enemies/not-blood-family without just dumping it on you. Yes, in both stories I've written where Tar is present in, a good deal of his relationships are already established and running, but very little of his past is actually mentioned/how these relations are formed/maintained/what they mean to him. I hope to do some of that without making it a boring biography full of unnecessary details or turning a (I think, anyway) fairly masculine, and strong male elf into a ninny.
> 
> And I thought the whole ‘about-to-be-executed-at-Helgen’ thing got old. That line of thinking is exactly why An Assassin, a Thief and the Dragonborn starts the way it does. He is my second of about six Dragonborns I play, most of whom have no reason to be executed at all. Then I have about another twenty characters I have sitting on my PC waiting for the day I decide to let them see the light of day in a story. If I see Alduin land on that tower once more while kneeling at the block, the headsman won’t need to cut my head off – it’ll pop off on its own;)  
> Anyway, all shall become clear later. Hopefully.
> 
> It’s taken me over a month to write this chapter (in my head and in the game, he’s already tracking down Miraak. I mean, seriously, that’s years from now. I’m going way back to the beginning here, and it’s tricky going so far back. I lack the patienceXD), so I’m hoping that, after this is done, the rest will come easier. (Lol Dia you lied to yourself hereXD)
> 
> I would finally like to add that I will be using some (read as ‘any I find relevant/that I like’) spells from Oblivion and making some more extensive mention of the events and people in TES:IV, the reasons for which will, hopefully, be explained later in the story. If not, for whatever crappy reason, I shall explain to those who ask/provide a short on it. I apologize to those who are unfamiliar with TES:IV, or those who are confused by the references, I will try to be as clear about them as I possibly can. If you have trouble with it, just PM me and I’ll try to clarify as best I can

_“Would you not come with us to Skyrim, Tawarthion?” Ondolemar asked, his emerald eyes shining at the idea, while crow’s feet threatened to show themselves. Tawarthion was shocked – travel with them to Skyrim? Ondolemar must have known he’d catch Tar unawares, because he smirked gleefully and pressed on. “I heard there is a College in the capital where all the would-be bards study. I thought you might be interested in a different ‘culture’s’ view of that art,” the newly-dubbed Justiciar leaned against the desk Tar was sitting at, raising a brow. Then he waved a hand. “Elenwen is the First Emissary, so we will accompany her to Skyrim and remain there to enforce the Concordat. They have given us a building inside the capital – Solitude, yes – while our Embassy is being built.”_

_Tawarthion stared at the almost-dry ink on the page in front of him. Going to Skyrim might just be a good thing for him, it might –_

The horse he was riding stumbled, more of a misstep than a trip, but the action jerked Tawarthion back to the present, scowling at the dark horse’s mane. It was a dainty, lithe thing, meant for the smoother terrain of Cyrodiil and Alinor than the rocky, uneven Skyrim.

He glanced around at his company, mostly Thalmor Justiciars and a handful of soldiers ordered to protect the company from Nords and other hostile natives and creatures in – what even Tar was beginning to agree with – this frozen, rocky wasteland. Ondolemar was riding next to him, and the mer seemed to enjoy the coolness radiating from Elenwen whenever Ancano tried to make conversation. Tawarthion turned his thoughts back to the day the White-Gold Concordat had been signed, ensuring a certain kind of Thalmor victory through the sheer humiliation of the Empire.

_The White-Gold Concordat had just been signed, Emperor Titus Mede the Second looking grim and defeated as he signed the concordat with his tall, sharp signature._

_Tawarthion had watched Elenwen’s barely contained glee at their victory, and Ondolemar’s carefully masked smirk.  
But when the Mer he called Brother caught his gaze, Tar saw he was grateful that he would no longer need to spend hours, days _ weeks _stuck in a torture room, forcing confessions and Divines-know-what-else from enemies, and punishing those among their own ranks who had defected. Lemar never told Tawarthion what he did in there, but every now and then a darkly haunted, faraway look would creep into his eyes and he would grow cold and cruel. Ancano was far more suited to that line of work, even enjoying the pain he caused. Sometimes._  
Other times the Mer seemed to remember a moment in their past, and his sharp face would grow pale in fear.

_But that was rare at best._

_The Ordinator they were accompanying nodded curtly, deftly snatching up the concordat and pulled Tar back to the present. The Ordinator declared peace between the two sides, his long, looping signature already on the paper along with a motley collection of others from their government. And then they left the White-Gold Tower, with news of their success._

_Talos worship was to be banned, effective immediately; and the Aldemeri Dominion would spread to most of the provinces, thanks to the Empire’s continued but weak grasp on most of the provinces. Hammerfell proved a challenge to claim thanks to the desert, but the Dominion was prepared to leave it alone and without allies – after all, it_ had _left the Empire, and now the Empire was beholden to the Dominion. Hammerfell could do nothing on its own._

_Tawarthion was only here, in Cyrodiil, because Ondolemar had convinced his Ordinator to allow a bard into the meeting. Someone had to record the events accurately, for the people, of course. Tawarthion had merely smiled and played along. This was Ondolemar's way of forcing him out of Alinor’s breathtaking countryside and into the wide world full of people; Lemar’s way of forcing him to become more sociable again._

_And Tawarthion was secretly grateful – elves weren’t meant to be solitary to the extent to which Tar had isolated himself. Ondolemar had always been like an older brother to him, and the two had been inseparable since the day they had met, always looking out for one another. Tar was only sorry that Ancano had viewed their friendship –_ brotherhood – _as a rivalry from the beginning._  
The three had become friends, then friendly rivals, and fallen out completely. Except for Ondolemar and Ancano: they declared themselves enemies for many decades, and did everything they could to make the other’s life miserable. They called for a testy truce a few decades ago, but even that had failed recently.  
The cause of that had been Ancano’s newly-stoked envy, and his persistent requests and eventually demands that Tar return to his studies at Alinor’s Mages College and that he should join the army.

_The resulting fight had nearly killed Ondolemar_ and _Ancano._

_And they hadn't dealt with each other since, except on official business._

“– in this city. Are you even _listening_?” Ondolemar snapped, scowling at Tar.  
“Hm? I missed the beginning,” Tar replied evenly. He remembered something about the Thalmor, solitude and headquarters.  
Ondolemar sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes and offering a sly wink to Tar. “Is your head already full of whatever barbaric things you will learn here in Skyrim?” he teased, grinning.  
Tawarthion laughed, about to reply when Ancano’s sneer cut him off. “Yes – imagine: a cultured, highborn mer falling into the black abyss that is the Nordic barbarism!”  
Elenwen glanced back with a small smile, and Estormo – a friend of Ancano’s, Tar had gathered – sniggered as well. Ondolemar was close to breathing fire.

“Yes, imagine,” Tar started. “Wouldn’t that level of supposed greed and baseness be something to sneer about? I can only think _you_ would be the first to fall, Ancano.”  
The fair-haired mer turned in the saddle to glare at Tar’s grin, almost jerking his horse around to fight.

“Enough! We are not here to bicker amongst ourselves – the capital city of Skyrim is just atop that cliff, so set the proper example of propriety,” Elenwen chided coolly, unconsciously raising her nose to look down on the party. Ancano’s lips twitched into half-snarls and he faced forwards again.

Ondolemar shot Tawarthion a bright smile.

It was going to be a long stay in Solitude if all three of them were to remain in close quarters for anything longer than a week, and time would have nothing to do with it.

 

* * * * * * *

 

The Bard’s College of Skyrim was a tall, square building with beautifully carved arches and reliefs on the façade. Nord craftsmanship, while primitive compared to that of Alinor, was still something to marvel at. Tar had left the Thalmor behind as soon as they had entered the gates of Solitude, and managed to find his way to the College with the reluctant help of locals. The guards proved far more helpful and friendly, much to Tar’s surprise.

He tucked his auburn hair behind an ear, and walked into the building.

It was far busier than he had anticipated, with almost every race just in the bottom floor, including High Elf, now that he was here. And every age imaginable was inside, as well – from young children too naïve to know the workings of the world, to old men and women, scarred and hardened by life. A young, dark-haired Imperial came over with a quick smile. “You look lost – are you looking for Viarmo?”  
“Viarmo?” Tar frowned. There was an Altmer in the College?  
“Yes, he’s the headmaster here. I’ll show you to his office,” the Imperial motioned for Tar to follow, then started weaving through the crowd to the stairway at the other end of the room. “If you’re looking to study here, you’d best start thinking about your preferred subjects, and then compare where the classes are held. Many lectures and lessons are held on opposite sides of the building, and may be several floors apart,” the man called over his shoulder, jerking a thumb at a Dunmeri woman cursing and shoving through the crowd.  
“Thanks…” Tar trailed, following the man around the back of the stairway, down a narrow but quiet corridor to a series of closed doors Tar presumed were offices. The Imperial stopped, gesturing to the door at the end of the hall. “Viarmo’s office is in that room. And good luck – potential students are required to perform a service to the College before admittance, and Viarmo has been very excited about some great find Giraurd – the language and history Master – recently informed him of.” The Imperial glanced over him once. “You might be sent to retrieve whatever that is. Be prepared for travel and dungeon-delving.”  
“Thank you, I think.”  
The Imperial smiled and turned to stride away, and Tar was left wondering what exactly was in store for him at the College.

He was up for the challenge, either way.

 

* * * * * * *

 

“So, you want to join the College, then?” Viarmo asked, his voice somewhat husky.  
“I have come all the way from Alinor to study here. I intend to do exactly that,” Tar confirmed for what felt like the tenth time. He had a feeling that patience and language would be one of the few things he would be expected to know before he would be allowed in, but his patience was wearing thin and he knew he was being tested for something else. Tar resisted the urge to narrow his eyes at the older mer. “I believe there is something else you may require of me.”  
Viarmo nodded. “A mer to the point – very well. There is something else I need you to do. One of the Masters here, Giraurd Gemane, has assured me that he has indeed discovered the original King Olaf’s Verse, before it was lost from the Poetic Edda.”  
Tawarthion nodded thoughtfully. “I do not know this verse, nor do I fully understand what the Poetic Edda is.”  
“Olaf’s Verse isn't taught in the Isles – _Alinor_ – because it is Nordic, and falls into the mythic genre. Also, the Poetic Edda is rather specific to Skyrim as its ‘Living History’. The Edda has also undergone many changes and rewrites throughout the ages, including translations and additions of new words as the language evolved. It is worth a great deal historically and culturally to Skyrim, as it contains at least one piece from every single bard who has passed through these doors, many of them are _Skalds_ , . Finding the original King Olaf’s Verse would be of great and rich historic and scholarly value, but I can see you already appreciate history.– every single bard to pass through this College has added their piece to it throughout the ages, and returning Olaf’s Verse to its rightful place within the Edda would be a great and historic day indeed!” Viarmo had leapt off his perch on the desk, waving his arms as he grew more excited, his voice rising until he was shouting and breathless.

Tawarthion could only grin in amazement. “Very well. I shall retrieve this verse for you. Where is it purported to be?”  
“Inside Dead Men’s Respite, an ancient Nordic barrow. A kind of underground, stone crypt for Nordic dead, supposed to be infested with draugr, a kind of being cursed to undeath,” Viarmo waved a hand. “Of course, the traps, skeevers – giant rats carrying all kinds of diseases – bandits and general maze-like quality of these barrows are far more dangerous than undead, in my opinion. Oh… and there are giant spiders, too – hope you’re not… _disinclined_ to them.”

Tar dropped his head to hide the dark scowl on his face. He’d been in enough dark and remote places in his life to know that there was far more to the _rumor_ of undead than just rumor. _Far too many people accept it as something from the minds of fiction writers and poets,_ he hissed to himself, smoothing his features to offer Viarmo a tight smile. “I’ll need a map of Skyrim and the location of the barrow marked on it to find the verse for you.”  
Viarmo’s face broke into a bright, beaming smile as he clapped his hands. “Ha ha! Good, good! I shall direct you to Giraurd, and he will be able to give you more specific details about the verse, its author Svaknir and the barrow!”

They stood and left the headmaster’s office in search of the Master of Language and History at the College.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Dead Men’s Respite was east of Dragon Bridge, west of Morthal and definitely south of both, according to Giraurd. Ancient footpaths still used by many of the hunters, animals and bandits would be marked with a stacked stone obelisk, roughly waist-height, if they led to a barrow. Thereafter, it was a simple matter of finding the next such obelisk up to the barrow door, which may or may not be locked. Dead Men’s Respite was most likely situated nearby the river, but could also be more inland than believed to be.

Tawarthion disliked the sheer number of variables and ‘ifs’ and ‘maybe, perhapses’ related to exploring, and specifically finding this verse. At least, he could cast his Clairvoyance spell when he was in the wilderness to narrow down the search for the barrow somewhat. He had carefully avoided telling Lemar exactly where he was going – the Justiciar was already busy enough with formalizing the politics and nuances of the Thalmor’s presence in Skyrim under Elenwen’s direction. He didn’t need to worry about Tawarthion and venturing into a potentially dangerous barrow. Besides, it wasn’t Ondolemar’s fault that he had stopped practicing magic decades ago, and that it had affected his ability to cast spells at and above the level of Journeyman – or Adept, as it was called in Skyrim. He had _chosen_ to stop practicing, and had finally managed to get some semblance of control as a result.

Those few years of his life were ones he intended to _never_ repeat – hindsight had shown him just how much damage he had actually managed to do. Of course, he still _wanted_ that kind of power at his fingertips, in his very soul, but the price of losing people he considered dear was too high to pay again.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Dead Men’s Respite had been fairly easy to find once Tawarthion was in the general area – the barrow was built into a hill, and would probably descend deeper into the earth. It was a day’s walk from Dragon Bridge, and taking in the imposing stonework, Tar guessed it would be more akin to an ancient settlement inside. He had taken a few precautions, such as having some light elven armor made for him, practicing his spells along the way, lots of potions – both to replenish magicka and heal his wounds – and now all he needed to do was walk through the doors into the barrow.

It was as simple as that.

The light was dim inside, with a few braziers burning down to their last, glowing embers. The corridor Tar followed already sloped down to a larger chamber, and the walls were lined with embalmed dead. In the center of the room was a raised altar, with a large artifact cut from – what looked to him – like a solid piece of ruby. He looked around him warily: sometimes the dead who would rise to defend their resting place were easy to spot.

But he couldn’t pinpoint a single one. _The ones most likely to rise might be the three with armor I can see…._ Tawarthion carefully stepped deeper into the chamber. Across the way from him was a portcullis, and he suspected that picking up the ruby artifact in front of him would raise it. He walked up the steps to the altar, and examined the ruby. It was a claw of some sort. _Is it an ancient kind of key?_ he wondered, running his fingers over the smooth surface. “Only one way to find out,” he breathed, picking it up and putting it into his satchel, glancing at the portcullis as it raised noisily against the stone.

He turned to the scraping of steel against stone and a sharp grunt. Tawarthion charged his spells, casting a fire rune on the floor in front of him and blasting fire at the draugr as it drew its sword. The rune exploded, the heat and the shock waves pushing Tar back against the altar, shielding his face and incinerated the draugr, setting a second one alight. He charged another spell – an older one from the Third Era – and released it, baring his teeth at the draugr as it withered even more and fell to the ground, dead. Tar scowled at the draugr, pushing up from the altar and turning around to face the portcullis.

A shimmery, blue ghost stood staring at him intently, then smiled, beckoning Tawarthion closer. He followed warily, and the man beckoned more urgently, a lute slung over his back. When the mer got close enough, the ghost turned and strode through the portcullis and deeper into the barrow.

_Is that…. Is_ Svaknir _showing the way to the verse?!_

 

* * * * * * *

 

Tawarthion followed the barrow deeper into the ground, following twisting corridors, narrowly missing the first three pressure-plate traps, killing dozens of draugr and two large, red spiders. Every few steps down a stair way, he would slip, perhaps fall to the bottom, skid down a few steps before coming to a halt. Every now and again the ghost would appear, smiling at Tar and leading the way for a short bit before disappearing again. Often the ghost appeared when he thought he had gotten lost in the maze that was a burial hall, or a collection of chambers with fallen-in passages. Once already, he’d been forced to open a grate in the floor and drop down into the water, swimming to the corridor only to have a giant rat – possibly the infamous ‘skeever’ everyone at the Bard’s College kept warning him about before he left – sink its teeth into his arm. Tawarthion had cursed loudly, smashing it and his arm into the wall with a satisfying crack and squelch of smashed bones and damaged organs.

Its pained squeal and his cursing had attracted the attention of several draugr. One rushed Tar, and he sidestepped to stop against the wall, grabbing its shoulder and throwing it into the pool of water, where it sputtered and flailed, sinking in its heavy armor. The other two were instantly more cautious, but one had a bow. The roots covering the flooded floor and the roots reaching down from above made a clear shot difficult, but Tawarthion had the advantage of spells. And water.

Without stopping to think twice, he fired his Sparks spell into the water at the draugrs’ feet, grinning darkly as they writhed in the current.

Then it hit Tar, and he grunted as the current coursed through him even as he released the magic and killed the two draugr. He sank to the floor, shuddering as the current finally released him. He panted, running shaky fingers through his hair and tucked loose strands behind his ears. Tawarthion took a deep breath, and stood up. He pulled out a magicka potion and drank it, savoring the fresh, minty flavor and hoping the last two would be enough for the rest of the barrow.

After that…. Well, it was only a narrow stone walkway high above the sarcophagi below, and because he hadn't noticed the tripwire, axes were swinging down over the bridge. If he was lucky, it would just knock him down to the lower floor with a serious concussion and at least one broken bone. If he wasn’t….

So he waiting, trying to figure out the timing between the swings. There was a large enough gap between the three sets of four axes for one person to stand and prepare for the next set. _There, that’s my timing_ , Tar thought, taking a step back to give him momentum for the first sprint. The second set of swinging axes passed by right in front of him.

The rest was easy after that, and the pull chain on the other side returned the axes to their resting places. Tawarthion followed another ramp up, opening a tall, wide double-door, following the ghost once more through the many twisting passages, until he reached a broad walkway with a sealed door at the end. The cool, snowy-scent of a magical seal radiated from the door, and Tar turned to look at the ghost, smiling at him again, and beckoning he follow stairs going down. The Altmer resisted the urge to roll his eyes – he’d already slipped and fallen down enough of these rough, narrow Nord stairways and now he was going down the longest one yet. But he obliged the ghost, who led him all the way to another chamber with two draugr slumped in thrones, and another grate in the floor.

Tar dispatched one of the draugr before three in adjoining chambers rushed the portcullises separating them from the main room. His magicka barely made it through the assault, and he hoped nothing would be lurking at the bottom of the grate. Thankfully, though, there was a spiral staircase going down. At the bottom was a handle, and the faint seams of a false wall. Tawarthion charged a weak spell in his right hand as he pulled the handle, the wall sliding down into the ground slowly.

The ghost was sitting on a rock next to a mummified corpse lying on its side and clutching a book. The ghost straightened, and smiled at Tawarthion, pointing at the book. Tar stepped in, prying the book from the mummy’s fingers and leafing through it quickly. There were damaged pieces to the ode, but it certainly _was_ the original King Olaf’s Verse. Tar glanced up at the ghost. “Are you Svaknir, the author of King Olaf’s Verse?” he asked. The ghost smiled and nodded. “Could you tell me what the missing pieces to the poem is, Svaknir?” Tar asked, frowning at one of the damaged verses.

But when he looked up to the ghost, Svaknir had vanished. Tar snapped the book shut, wrapping it in a spare tunic and putting it in his bag. _This is the most valuable treasure in the barrow. Even the few scrolls I picked up are scrolls that can be bought in the cities. Scroll of Mayhem and Circle of Protection are only so useful._ He trudged up the stairs, and was about to leave the barrow when Svaknir reappeared at the top of the stairs, casting a spell at the sealed door and opening it. The bard drew his sword and rushed down a long corridor, vanishing through a door at the end.

Against his more sensible judgement, Tar followed the bard down the long hall, studying the hieroglyphs and wall carvings of a great king conquering a dragon, and how one city refused his claims to kingship. The door at the end was circular, with three rings embellished with an ancient Nordic rendition of an animal. The topmost ring had a howling wolf, the middle ring looked like a winged lizard of sorts – _a dragon, Tawarthion. That’s a dragon_ – and the final circle was that of an eagle. Then there was a strangely shaped keyhole, as if a claw would open it.

Tar dove into his bag, pulling out the ruby claw from the first chamber. As he grabbed the main body of the claw, he felt bumps on the underside. The elf turned it over to see a series of carvings, similar to the ones on the door, except in the order of wolf, eagle, wolf. _The rings have to move,_ he reached up to the middle ring, putting the claw back into his bag. He pushed the circle in, and it turned automatically to a wolf carving. He pushed it again, and it turned to the eagle. Then he turned the last one to wolf, and put the claw into the keyhole, turning it slightly both ways. Then the door heaved, dust and dirt falling down from the top as it sank into the floor.

_Nords have a fondness for falling doors,_ he shook his head, grateful that he was finally reaching stairs going higher up. He followed the hallway to a massive, lofty chamber, Svaknir standing in the middle with his sword drawn. There were – at a quick guess – some twenty thrones with a draugr seated on each one. _I didn’t sign up to fight_ all _these draugr,_ Tawarthion thought sullenly, sighing and untying a thin leather thong from his right arm, brushing his fingers through his hair to gather it into a pony and tied it with the leather.

“Olaf! It is time!” Svaknir shouted, his rough voice resonating through the hall.

Tawarthion glanced around him warily. _How many draugr will rise?_

The chamber shuddered violently. Tawarthion widened his stance to keep his balance.

“Svaknir, I have limited abilities with magic, and I don’t have weapons with me. I can keep some busy, but I don’t have enough magicka to kill any,” Tawarthion told the bard, coming to stand next to the ghost as soon as the ground stilled.  
Svaknir nodded once at Tar. “I will kill them. Weaken them for me.”

The draugr came one at a time, then a wave suddenly came at once. “The Scroll of Mayhem…!” he realized. “Svaknir, keep them off me for a while!”

The bard nodded, snarling at the draugr, keeping them away from Tar while he recited the scroll. It would make them attack each other as well as the elf and the bard, but hopefully it would make them turn on each other as well. Red light flashed, and the draugr started turning on each other. The Altmer grinned, helping some of the draugr finish each other off. He ducked under a wild swing from a female draugr, grabbing a fallen sword and driving it into her chest.

“Arise, Olaf! My vengeance is at hand!” Svaknir shouted.

An axe bit into his left thigh, and he snarled, slamming a fist into the draugr’s face. The sword Tar had used was stuck in the female draugr. He focused his ice magic into a spear, throwing it into the second draugr’s chest. He was surrounded by furious draugr, and Svaknir was nowhere to be seen.

Tawarthion pulled the axe out of his thigh, ducking and swinging it at the draugr as best he could. He needed a healing potion, desperately.

The elf cut down another draugr before Svaknir appeared, taking down the rest. The ghost cast a dark look at Tar’s leg. “Heal that, now. You will lose too much blood.”

Tar nodded, already pulling out his healing potions and throwing them down his throat. He _hated_ the sweet taste of a healing potion. The cut wasn’t as deep as before, and it wasn’t bleeding as much. But it wasn’t completely healed, either. Tawarthion had one magicka potion left. The other had shattered when the draugr had hacked into his thigh.

“How many are left?”  
“Olaf is a true Nord warrior. Dishonorable, but a warrior nonetheless. Wait if you must, I will take care of the others.” Svaknir turned to three draugr slowly straightening from thrones on a second level. The fight didn’t last long, and Tar followed the ghost up the stairs to a final sarcophagus, quickly finishing his last magicka potion. Any extra magicka he needed would have to come from his Highborn power.

“Olaf!” Svaknir growled.

“Insolent bard!” a deep voice snarled. The sarcophagus burst open, and a tall, once-imposing Nord king with a patch over one eye stood up, snarling at Svaknir. “Die!”

It was all Tawarthion could do to stay out of Olaf One-Eye’s reach, casting his weakest spells to slow down the powerful draugr while Svaknir took him head on. _Auri-El,_ Tawarthion cursed, calling on his Highborn power. If he had the chance to cast one, strong spell at Olaf, he _might_ just be able to end the fight sooner…. The sudden rush of magicka filled him, and he threw down a lightning rune, sending his Lightning Bolt spell at Olaf. _One more spell_ … Tar thought, sneering at the draugr as he stepped into the lightning rune, the explosion sending him flying and writing violently.

Svaknir raced to the fallen Nord king, driving his sword through the draugr’s chest.

Tawarthion grinned at Svaknir when the ghost turned and nodded at the elf. “Farewell, Elf.”

And then he was gone. Tawarthion narrowed his eyes at the ghost, a half-smile on his lips. Then he walked over to Olaf, taking a key from his belt.

He was about to unlock the door and leave, trying to ignore the pull in his soul to the strange wall behind the sarcophagus. He sighed, his shoulders dropping in defeat even as he turned to examine the wall. He frowned, touching the markings and carefully ignoring the one he most wanted to examine. _Patience. Wait,_ he commanded himself. It looked like a series of carefully made claw marks, like an ancient script of sorts. Tar finally turned to the word that spoke to him, called him. He traced the edges, letting his mind wander. _Nah._

The Altmer fisted his hand. The word – because that was definitely what it was – was ‘nah’. He turned back to the beginning, wondering if he would be able to read the rest of it. _Nonvul bron dahmaan daar rot do fin fodiiz bormah Oblivion loost nid nah med spaan vahdin beyn._

“What in the names of the Divines is this?” he breathed. How could he read a script he had never seen before? Read it, but not understand it? He pulled out his blank journal and a charcoal stick, quickly copying down the script. Perhaps Viarmo and the others at the College knew what it was. Tawarthion shook his head, following the door and hidden passage out and back into the main chamber. “All that effort and travelling when there was a shortcut. How inconvenient there isn't a lever to access it from this side,” he commented wryly, stepping over the charred bodies of the draugr he had killed earlier.

It was late afternoon outside, and he followed the path down to the main road. He would camp here for the night.


	2. Word Walls

Tawarthion rolled and tied his bedroll to the top of his pack, then stood and cracked his neck, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the Skyrim sun. He had almost regretted his speedy dip in the river, but the day had proven warmer than he had expected. He had managed to heal his thigh quite well – but it was on that fickle balance of soon-to-tear-open and soon-to-be-healed. The elf would have a faint scar there if he took care to let it heal further – sadly, casting spells and using a healing potion was out of the question. His magicka still hadn't regenerated to an acceptable amount yet. _Why was I born under the Atronach?  
_ He stayed still for a while longer, and listened to the sound of soldiers coming his way, running his fingers through his shoulder-length damp hair to coax out the tangles and knots. Then Tar sighed: there wasn’t any point in forcing the matter, and he needed to get back to Solitude, anyway. He hoisted his pack, slinging it over one shoulder and started walking.

Hopefully the soldiers left him alone. He wanted to think about the phrase he had found in the barrow. But then again, a distraction might be the better option.

“Hold, Traveler!” a Nord voice called.

Tawarthion stopped, turning towards the soldiers. Well, they were more like the guards from one of the counties – _Holds_ – in Skyrim. His feelings were mirrored in the Nord’s face: mildly disgusted disappointment. “Can I help you?” Tar asked, turning to face the group. A quick estimate put them at about thirty.  
The Nord who had stopped him put on a stiff smile. “Just wanted to know if you were alright – travelling alone in Skyrim is a risky endeavor. But you seem to be fine.”  
Tawarthion nodded. “I’ve been told, and I’ve made it this far without great incident.” He studied the Nord – clearly the leader of this group, trustworthy and loyal to those he considered friends and allies. “It seems we are travelling in the same direction for now, and I will admit that I am incapacitated at the moment. May I join you until we part ways?” Tawarthion had never seen anyone struggle so to keep their shock in check – he smiled. “An unusual request, I know.”  
“Well,” the Nord hesitated. “We are moving down to assist with quelling the rebellion in the Reach, so –”  
“Oh, come Captain Galmar! What’s the harm?” a younger Nord spoke quietly, obviously thinking Tar couldn’t hear them.

Eventually their leader – this Captain Galmar, nodded. “Very well, travel with us to Karthwasten. From there you can buy passage to almost anywhere else.”  
“Thank you,” Tar nodded. It was in the opposite direction he wanted to go, but Galmar was right – he could probably buy passage north to Dragon Bridge or even Solitude. And if that failed, he could send word up to Viarmo that he had acquired the verse and was on his way, while he waited for his magicka to replenish and his injury to heal. _It’s a nuisance,_ Tar thought, suddenly finding himself in step next to the young Nord from earlier, a bright look in his face and a spring in his step. It always amazed the Altmer that mortals could be so carefree in life despite their short, fleeting lifespans.

“Ralof of Riverwood,” he introduced, his pale blonde hair braided at his forelock. He smiled at Tar, a young man eager to prove himself – probably in battle.  
_How foolish_ … “Tawarthion, of Cloudrest,” he added unsurely.  
Ralof grinned. “Ah, it’s a Nord habit to state your place of birth, unless you are given a name based on your accomplishments, or if you are of noble birth and you have a family name. It’s the first time I’ve heard a High Elf try that, though. It makes me think that –” he stopped himself, suddenly looking wary. “Nevermind,” he shook his head.  
But Tar had an idea of what he meant to say. So he just nodded. “I came to study at the Bard’s College in Solitude. I think I have much to learn.”  
“Aye, I think Nords and Elves are two races whose cultures are the most different,” Ralof nodded.

Tawarthion had to think a bit to keep with the strange accent. “I’ve heard of this rebellion while riding for Solitude – it is the one concerning Markarth and Bretons, correct?”  
“Uh, yes and no,” Ralof started. “While it _does_ center in Markarth, and Bretons have taken the city, they’re actually a group called the Forsworn. They’ve been at odds with us for years, saying the Reach was theirs and not ours, and during the Great War, they took the city and reinstated lots of their old traditions. I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to – a lot of it is downright daedra worship!”

Tar shot a glance at the young Nord. _They’re against daedra worship, magic, and elves. Nords are extremely primitive in their thinking._

He sucked in a sharp breath when he stepped into a ditch, his thigh burning as it pulled open. He clutched it instinctively, snarling. “Are you injured?” Ralof asked.  
Tar nodded. “A draugr took an axe to my leg in the final chamber,” he half-hopped, half-limped on. It surely wouldn’t have jarred the wound _that_ much…. But he’d need to tear off another strip from his tunic, and tie new bandage around it; perhaps he’d need to have stitches put in, at the worst case.

He sighed, wondering what he would do about it. The Nord stared at him, confusion plainly painted on his face. “Why don’t you just heal it with magic?”  
“I don’t have the magicka to do that.”  
Tar rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the Nord trying not to laugh incredulously. “You’re a High Elf, the most gifted in magic of all the races. That should be something menial!”  
“It _is_ menial,” Tar growled. “But I was born under the Atronach so I can’t cast spells unless I have magicka potions on hand or I wait until my magicka restores on its own, which takes about a day or two.”  
“You said you rode to Solitude; where is your horse?”  
“I left her in Solitude. She wasn’t meant to travel in a country like this – I suppose,” Tar admitted with a wry grin, “you could say that she was more of a leisure horse to ride in cities and show off to the rich and famous. The mare belongs to a friend,” Tawarthion added when the Nord frowned.  
“So, you don’t have extra bandages?”  
“I’ve torn up a spare tunic. I’d rather –”

“What’s the problem here?” a woman called sharply, interrupting them and striding up from behind, pointing at Tawarthion’s leg. She had an angry face, her red hair thick and billowing around a freckled face. Her eyes quickly followed Tawarthion's hand up to his face, and marched him over to the side of the road, waving the rest of the militia on. She snapped her fingers at Ralof, just when the Nord looked like he wanted to duck out of her presence. The woman dropped to her haunches and she started digging in her pack. “Take off your breeches.”  
“Excuse me?” Tar stuttered.  
“Take off your breeches.” She glared up at the mer. “I’m the healer with this group. While I don’t have your fancy magic, I can get the same job done. The main difference is, you will have a scar with my method. So, take them off or I’ll tear through them to work. And sit down, will you?”  
“I’d rather you tear them,” Tar said quickly. His wound felt sticky under the fabric. _Perhaps I’d underestimated it,_ he admitted.

“Fine,” she nodded. “Sit.”

Tawarthion obliged slowly, wondering exactly _what_ she was going to do, and if she knew what she was doing. The Nord woman worked quickly, slicing into his breeches with an iron dagger. Ralof hovered nearby, looking uncomfortable and almost fearful of the woman. She quickly untied the knot he had made around his bandage, unwinding the strip and ripping it off where the blood had coagulated. Tar hissed, watching the woman carefully. He wasn’t sure if he should trust her or not, but there wasn’t much of a choice now.  
He didn’t know much about this primitive and archaic manner of healing, and he hadn't exactly paid much attention to Restoration when he has enrolled for it as his final subject back in Third Era Four-Thirty-Seve, when he was… forty-five, forty-six? _No, forty-five. Well, I suppose I'll have to wait and see what she does,_ he thought sullenly.

Ralof must have read his expression, because he clapped the mer on the shoulder. “Don’t worry! Morgne knows what she’s doing. She’ll have you right as rain before you know it!” he laughed, then jumped to hold out a waterskin for Morgne while she rinsed her hands.  
Morgne snorted. “Judging by the wound, he’s done most of the work for me, but for the rest of it to heal without magic, it’ll need stitches, and some care. So, I’ll start with cleaning this to prepare it for stitches. They’ll keep the wound closed so it can heal properly, with as little trace of a scar as possible.”  
“Alright. Would you mind explaining the process, if there should come a time I need to do it myself?”  
The healer looked up at him with a mix of an incredulous scowl and a glare. “Fine. But if you’re really interested in knowing this, then you should stop by the Temple of the Eight in Solitude. You’ll need a needle – usually made of bone, sometimes metal – and you’ll see it’s curved, and make sure it’s not a sewing needle because the last thing you want when sewing a wound closed is drag from around the eye,” Morgne held up the needle, running a fingertip over the smooth, flat edge of a bone needle she held. “You’ll do more damage when it bulges a little, and isn't perfectly smooth, like a tailor’s needle, or a glover’s needle. Just make sure you can thread your catgut or silk thread.” She opened a pouch, pulling out a long piece of white thread. “The kind you take depends mostly on your coin. I have catgut, made from sheep or goat intestines and the healers selling it at Temples will have blessed and sterilized it, so it’s perfectly safe,” she sliced off a long piece, glaring at Tawarthion to make sure he was still listening. He nodded.  
“Good, you’re still following me. Silk thread is more expensive, and naturally more sterile, though I would suggest at least boiling it before use, and keeping it safe in a pouch of its own with other medical equipment and away from food and poisons. _Obviously_ , unless you’re dumber than you look.” She moved Tar’s leg to a position she deemed appropriate for work, ignoring his glare at the insult and snapped her fingers at Ralof, who poured some water over Tar’s leg. Morgen wiped away the blood, working quickly and effectively. _Well, she knows what she’s doing._ “I will not lie to you – this more than uncomfortable, and if you flinch or wriggle, you will find I might poke you a few times before succeeding.”  
“Is that a threat?”  
“Think of it as a possible prediction, and remember the fate of your leg is now, quite literally, in _my_ hands. Now, this is how you start….”

And with her quick explanations and guidance, Tar had a basic idea of stitches. He knew he wouldn’t remember _all_ of it, but it was better than nothing. As soon as she was done, Morgne washed her materials and her hands. “I’m going to put honey over this, and then bandage it up tightly again. The honey acts as a means to prevent filth from getting in, and helps heal the wound. When we stop tonight, you will seek me out so that I can change the bandage and apply fresh honey if needed.”  
“Will creamed honey work as well?” Tawarthion asked, thinking of the jar standing in his room at the makeshift Thalmor headquarters in Solitude.  
“I do not know what that is – you need pure honey for this to work,” Morgne scowled, smearing the honey into place, wiping her hands and starting wrapping the mer’s leg.  
“It’s whipped honey –”  
“I do not know, you must ask a healer. I would not suggest using something like that. Pure, raw honey is your best bet, Elf. There, done. Don’t you dare open this until tonight, and try not to rip out the stitches while you walk. It makes my life so much more difficult.”

Tawarthion stared after Morgne after her abrupt dismissal, and stood up before calling after her. “Thank you, Morgne!”  
“Bah!” she snorted, waving a hand dismissively.

“Well, she’s charming,” the elf commented, taking stock of the long cut in his breeches.  
“Ah, that’s Morgne for you. Not very good with people or words, but I’ve never seen her fail to help someone who needs it. She’s the best healer in Eastmarch, and I’m sure she’s one of the best in all of Skyrim, too,” Ralof nodded, walking beside Tawarthion as the fell into step at the back of the militia.

“So…. How exactly did a draugr manage to axe you? And…. What’s an elf doing in a Nordic barrow?” Ralof asked slowly, trying to keep his voice light.  
“I was sent to retrieve the original King Olaf’s Verse by Viarmo at the Bard’s College. I’m not used to such co-ordinated undead.”  
“What do you mean by that?”  
“I explored some caves and ruins when I was younger, and more often than not there were zombies of some kind. They’re much slower, and lack the mental capacity to fight accurately and with strategic attacks like the draugr,” Tar explained, shaking his head to try and clear the memories. It was a beautiful day still, and he wasn’t about to spoil it.  
“So, did you get the verse?” Ralof asked.  
Tar turned his head to grin at the Nord. “Of course I did.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Ralof turned out to be surprisingly intelligent company, considering what Tawarthion had heard about the Nords this far north. He had offered up a lot of information on Nordic customs, but most of it was very general, and specific questions Tawarthion had asked led to very vague answers. So he had turned away from that to something the Nord seemed more comfortable with – arms and armor.

And the dialogue slowly turned to monologue and Tawarthion was happy to listen, especially paying attention to the differences in heavy and light armor. Heavy armor sounded like the better option, to him. It was just a thicker buffer against something like what had happened in Dead Men’s Respite, and as strong as Elven armor was, it hadn't held well under the force of the attack. Perhaps he’d try the steel armor Ralof kept admiring, and wishing that, one day, he’d be able to afford a full set.

By the time dusk came, Karthwasten was a mottled patch of buildings sitting in a valley. Morgne had already come calling to see how Tawarthion was doing, grouchily explaining that he needed to leave that bandage on until the morning, then his injury was to be cleaned and redressed, and he would either need to stay here for a few days or catch the cart to Solitude. Then she had strode off again, her wild red hair flaming around her. The townsfolk seemed to have mixed reactions about the militia from the Eastmarch here – some preferred the Forsworn rule, some regarded the past as the past and had no desire for the ‘Old Ways’ to be brought back.

A wagon was taking ingots up to a smith in Solitude, and Tawarthion had managed to get himself a place on the carriage back. The general trader had a few very weak magicka and healing potions, which Tar had paid for before the woman could get a word in edgewise. The smith had shaken his head and handed the elf’s greaves back – there was no repair work to be done, only reforging the greaves, or scrapping them and melting it down to ingots again. So he sold his armor – there was little point in keeping the extra weight if he wasn’t going to wear it, and he had already decided that he wanted to try out the heavier, steel armor when he went adventuring again. Which wasn’t any time too soon, he hoped. Then again….

Being in Markarth to watch the Nordic forces collide with the Forsworn might be interesting, and worth seeing. But he could also go back after the dust had settled and see what had happened to the city. After all, he _was_ here to study at the Bard’s College first and foremost, not dive headfirst into adventure for the sake of it.

Either way, going back to Solitude in the morning might be the right thing to do first.

 

* * * * * * *

 

It was a long, slow and extremely bumpy trip back to Solitude, but the scenery made up for it. The greenery and soaring mountains sheltering the river for the first part of the journey was soothing, and when it gave way to the rolling, drier knolls, the river slowly meandering beside him, Tawarthion suddenly realized what it meant to feel _free_ , to be unbound by laws and customs and socially acceptable practices. Why Skyrim was still as wild as it was, and it had nothing to do with lawlessness, but rather a sense of unending freedom in an untamed and unbroken land.

Alinor was a painting of beauty: Skyrim was an epic of freedom.

The wagon was too uneven to even scribble down a half-formed poem in charcoal, but Tar managed in a few key words he’d use to write it once he was on steadier ground – inside a building, at the very least.

For as slowly as the heavily laden wagon was travelling, they still made good time – Dragon Bridge would be in view by midmorning or so, where a few trades would be made and the rest taken up to Solitude. Tawarthion had struck it lucky, and he knew it. This particular Breton merchant could have been headed for anywhere, and had been tolerating enough of an ‘outsider elf’ to allow him to ride along. All Tar really needed to do was make sure the metal didn’t shift and fall off the back – and even so, the wagon was so carefully and tightly packed, he doubted anything would happen.

As for the rest of the time…. The Altmer was left to his thoughts, and they turned back to the wall and the writing he had copied down. He had completely forgotten to ask Ralof about it, though asking Morgne might have been the better bet – she was quite a bit more learned in academia than the Nord soldier. But they were gone, joining the rest of their forces in laying siege to Markarth.

The mer didn’t touch Olaf’s Verse while on the road – he didn’t want to damage the pages, and suspected they would be far more susceptible to the sunlight than he could guess. He didn’t have the skills of a historian, and he’d rather Giraud dealt with the piece properly. There were many more wild creatures roaming the wilds than he had expected, and often the goats and elk would wander along the road or follow the wagon for a distance before wandering off again. They were lower down in the land between Karthwasten and Dragon Bridge, and the river meandered lazily beside them, the mountains and a few towering pines dotting the landscape.

Dragon Bridge was as fascinating to Tawarthion coming back to Solitude as it had been when he left – the size and accuracy of the dragon skulls were just too proportional, just too anatomically correct – in his guess, anyway – to be mere carvings. _But who am I to argue with historians and scholars? The dragons never really existed, and even if they did, the alleged burial grounds for dragons are all in Skyrim and the Nords are far too superstitious to allow an excavation…._

The stopover in Dragon Bridge turned out to be longer than Tar had hoped – mostly because the merchant had discovered an old acquaintance in the inn and had taken to a few more pints than he had intended. Tawarthion had clenched his jaw and forced himself to sit outside instead of confronting the Breton about his carelessness – after all, the mer was a freeloader riding up, and he had a poem to finish, anyway.

So he convinced himself to let the matter go, and rest in Dragon Bridge. Perhaps the general trader would have some healing potions and magicka potions he could buy…. After all, this was a predominantly Imperial village, with a small base for the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor’s bodyguards. The Blades had removed themselves from the public following the Oblivion Crisis, and no amount of persuasion and coercion could convince them to serve the Mede Dynasty as they had the Septims, renamed as the Penitus Oculatus.

They had been the last ones to flee in the Great War, standing strong against the Thalmor while the rest of Cyrodiil fell, and then suddenly, they too vanished. They didn’t leave much behind concerning their past strongholds or other hidden bases, either. Tawarthion sighed, perusing the shelves in the general trader. There really wasn’t much here in the way of potions, but he _did_ manage to get a jar of honey, some fresh bandages and some other basic medical equipment, following Morgne’s advice.

And then Tawarthion wandered down to the mill, sat down on a broad tree stump, packed out his charcoal and journal, and started writing. He’d have more than enough time to write and edit it, neatening the rougher edges into something more refined than mere dribble.

 

* * * * * * *

 

The smell of mead, ale, thatch and animal furs were thick in the air of the inn, only leveled by the smoke from the fires lit to keep its residents warm. It was a smell Tawarthion could get used to, so very different from the crisper, cleaner, more perfumed scents of Alinor. Tar grinned to himself, staring up at the wooden beams above his bed in the inn, his fingers laced together under his head. Yes, the smell of Skyrim was something he could get used to.

The Thalmor had made Nords out as people who lived with their animals, as wild and unclean, and even more uncivilized.

But being here…. It wasn’t quite a matter of unsophistication. Talking to the people gave the elf a chance to understand some of the methods to their madness, and which animals were greatly valued. There was some contention about the goat and the ox, but the chicken…. Every single inhabitant of Dragon Bridge Tawarthion had crossed had insisted the chicken was the most precious: it laid eggs, which were highly nutritious and integral in cooking and baking. And then the chicken itself had meat.

He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to a chicken thief after all that fuss over a single, flightless domesticated bird. Tawarthion wasn’t interested in stealing a chicken to satisfy his curiosity, either. It was far too much effort and completely unnecessary to cause that kind of trouble.

In the morning – or, later in the morning – he would set out with the merchant again for Solitude. Tawarthion would turn over Olaf’s Verse, choose his subjects in the College, and request permission to from Viarmo to head to Markarth and record the proceedings there. After all, the utter loss of the city had the potential to be something rather momentous in history. If it so happened that Skyrim reclaimed the city in the name of the Empire, then it would be something Tawarthion could use to garner favor with the Nords so he could learn more about them.  
Whichever way he looked at it, he had something to gain from going to Markarth and seeing the siege through.

Unless it was his fate to die there.

But that was another day’s worries, and overthinking about it now was like dripping water onto a hot stone.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Solitude was easily the busiest city Tar had seen since arriving in Skyrim. True, it was the capital of the country, but it paled when he thought of the Imperial City, even after it had been sacked twice in the Great War. The other city Tar had seen – Whiterun, he thought – had been rather sleepy as well. The villages were a few houses, and perhaps there was a general trader if it was positioned along a major road. Solitude was, in comparison, a bustling metropolis, with people dressed in rich fineries and bright colors, gaudily adorned with gold and precious metals and gems.

But the poor here were even poorer than those in the villages, and Tar doubted they stood the chance to get out of the rut they were in. Most seemed to lack the will and belief that they _could_ , in fact, raise themselves. _But all countries need their poor,_ he sneered when a ragged, filthy old man reached for him, sidestepping away from the beggar’s bony claws as though Tawarthion was in some kind of dance.

He didn’t have time for beggars and the likes: he was here for the Bard’s College, and that was that. He was no citizen here, and the people were not his problem.

The College came into sight not long after, and the Altmer was glad to see the tall building with the open courtyard. At the back, there would undoubtedly be an amphitheater for the actors and performers. Inside, it was just as busy as he had left it, but at least he knew where to go this time around. Tar only hoped that Viarmo would be in his office, and that he wouldn’t need to search the place for the Headmaster. He pushed his way through the crowd to the passage at the end of the hall. Perhaps he’d even be fortunate enough to catch Viarmo and Giraud at the same time.

The headmaster’s door stood ajar, and the sound of murmuring and furious scribbling met his ears. _He is going to snap his quill at that rate,_ Tar thought, rapping his knuckles on the door frame. “Godsdammit!” Viarmo swore, and Tar smiled to himself at the distinctive sound of a quill snapping and pages being snatched away, only to have the inkpot spill. “Well, come in then!” Viarmo snapped, cursing and waving the few pages he pinched at the corners. “Ah, the inevitable curse of an over-inspired mind. Perhaps I have something to lift your mood,” Tawarthion said, pushing the door open and stepping in.

The headmaster’s desk was overrun with loose pieces of parchment, charcoal, quills and a large pool of black ink settling in the middle of it all. “I apologize for being rude: and yes, you’re right. I, uh, should probably clear out some more space on my desk. Well, I suppose there will be more than a few students who will be pleased to hear that their assignments can’t be graded. So, you’ve returned from Dead Men’s Respite?” Viarmo asked, glancing around to find an open spot for his ink-splattered pages.  
“I have indeed. I also have King Olaf’s Verse in my possession. Though, I must concede, delving into ancient Nord barrows wasn’t quite as simple as avoiding skeevers and traps.”  
Viarmo grinned, then laughed. “Ha! Well, this is excellent news! Brilliant! And the Verse is intact? Readable?”  
“Yes. It will need to be restored, but the pages are still whole and the ink still bold. I should turn it over to Giraud, correct?”  
“Yes, yes! Follow me, I’ll take you to him. He’ll be thrilled to see the piece!” Viarmo stepped around his desk, motioning that Tawarthion should follow. “I can’t believe we _actually_ managed to find the piece! And that it was there! And you retrieved it, and made it back safely! Ha ha! This is the _best_ thing that’s happened to this College in _years_!”

Tawarthion followed behind the older Altmer with a small smile. He could appreciate the history that they had just rediscovered, and the restoration of such an old work was something worth making a fuss of. It would be the star of the syllabus for decades to come, of that there was no doubt.

Viarmo burst through another door, announcing himself with a loud, boisterous laugh. “We did it, Giraud! Our newest Bard has returned victorious from the clutches of Dead Men’s Respite with the _original_ King Olaf’s Verse!”

Giraud blinked, his jaw working as he processed the sudden interruption. His office was in stark contrast to the Headmaster’s office: it was neat, orderly, carefully organized and categorized, and looked almost twice as large as a result. “Y-you found…. You – _he_ – returned with King Olaf’s Verse?”  
“Yes, I have it here,” Tar stepped forwards, pulling the leather-wrapped book out of his pack and quickly stuffed the tunic he had wrapped it in back in his bag. “I found it clutched in the hands of its author, Svaknir, behind a false wall at the end of the barrow,” he held out the book to Giraud, who took it carefully, staring at the Verse as though it was the most precious and beautiful thing in all existence.  
“Yes, this is the Verse! This is it! Thank you, young bard, for without you, this would still be lost! We shall host a celebration in honor of the Verse’s retrieval, and to honor the memory and death of Svaknir. I cannot imagine the suffering he experienced before he died,” Giraud finished, giving Tar a warm smile before nodding and turning away. “It will need to be restored, and that will take some time, but I believe it can be done! I will keep both of you updated on the progress made on the Verse.”  
“Thank you, Giraud. I have complete faith in your abilities to restore King Olaf’s Verse!” Viarmo grinned.  
“I have a question, though,” Tawarthion interjected, both Masters turning to face him as he fished in his pack for his journal. “I found something else at the end of the barrow, and I could read what it said even though I have never seen the language before, and the script itself seems ancient. Do either of you recognize it?” he held out the notes he had copied from the wall he had found on the barrow. “I found it on a semi-circular wall behind Olaf’s sarcophagus.”

Giraud gently put Olaf’s Verse down, and Viarmo frowned when he studied the page. “Giraud, look…” he murmured, holding the book for the Language and History Master to examine.  
“By the Eight, is that really it?”  
“Is that really what?” Tawarthion asked, trying to keep his patience in check.  
“I think it is,” Viarmo replied, skipping Tar’s question completely.  
“Then it dates back to the Dragon Era, look at the script itself: it’s been scratched in, as if by a claw….”  
“What is it?” Tar asked again, letting some of his frustration through.

Giraud glanced at Tawarthion. “You say you can read this? And you’ve never seen it before?”  
“Yes. I wrote down the closest translation to the Cyrodiilic tongue below that,” he pointed at the page.  
“By the Eight, if he really _can_ read this, it will change the whole concept of these walls!” Viarmo exclaimed, almost pressing his nose to the page.  
“I don’t understand what I’m reading, though. And you’re still avoiding what it is.”

Giraud looked up at him with an awed expression. “You’ve just discovered a Word Wall, an artifact almost as old as Skyrim itself, and you say, that not only are these scratch marks a script, but that you can _read_ the script etched onto it? And that you have managed to acquire the phonetics of it, by some manner?”

Tawarthion blinked. “Yes.”


	3. The Road to Markarth

Giraud looked up at him with an awed expression. “You’ve just discovered a Word Wall, an artifact almost as old as Skyrim itself, and you say, that not only are these scratch marks a script, but that you can _read_ the script etched onto it? And that you have managed to acquire the phonetics of it, by some manner?”

Tawarthion blinked. “Yes.”

Giruad snapped the journal shut and held it out to the mer. “This is the first time anyone has ever confirmed that these Walls contain scripts, and you are, possibly, the only one who can read them. I’d like to see what you make of another piece, but I’ll need some time to have it brought up from the Archives…. Either way, we must first confirm your theory about the markings.”

Tawarthion merely gazed between the Headmaster and the History Master. “Of course; I would expect no less on such a sudden hypothesis. As for the text, I shall see what I can make of it, if anything at all. There is also another matter I would like to address, before I fully enroll at the College.”

Viarmo looked up with a half-frown. “You come full of requests today, Tawarthion.”  
Tar flexed his jaw briefly. “I have heard of the siege at Markarth, and I would like to travel there to record whatever happens. I believe it has the potential to be etched into history, whether the city is reclaimed or held by the band known as the Forsworn.”  
Giraud leaned back in his chair. “You seem to know quite a bit about the world, as well. How did you find out about this?”  
“I passed a militia heading for Markarth on the way back. They were joining their forces in preparation to retake Markarth,” Tawarthion dipped his head slowly. “They seem confident in taking the city, though their captain appeared the most grim about the matter.”  
Viarmo’s eyebrows rose, and he nodded to himself. “If this is true, and I suppose it is – everyone knows the Forsworn took Markarth – then it would be momentous. Taking the city will be difficult, considering its location. Very well. Go there. But set out tomorrow – there’s a student we can send out to verify your theory about these Walls. She follows a similar train of thought…. What’s her name?” he asked Giruad.  
“Helga Thrice-Versed. She should be back by tonight, in fact. I’ll have her come to my office as soon as she returns, and then we can discuss the matter further. I should also have sent in a request to have that book brought up from the Archives by then. At the latest, though, we will convene in my office by morning.”  
The mer nodded. “Then I would like to know which subjects you offer and would like to enroll for them, upon my return to the College after the events at Markarth have transpired.”  
“Excellent!” Viarmo beamed. “Come, come – I will show you the way!”  
“Viarmo,” Giraud started.  
The headmaster’s smile stiffened, and he faltered. “Yes…?”  
“Don’t you have papers to grade?”

 

* * * * * * *

 

And so Tawarthion spent the day perusing the subjects on offer, after he had been directed to another student currently working an administrative position. She hadn't seemed pleased that a High Elf was joining the College who _wasn’t_ from Skyrim, but she had carefully and clearly instructed him in the registration process. He could take a minimum of five, or a maximum of ten subjects per year, and the year was divided into two semesters, with exams on the chosen subjects at the end of each semester.

It was loosely structured, compared to Alinor’s rigid classes, and this format in Skyrim allowed many of the bards to travel freely and acquire new knowledge and experiences as they went along, adding to the Archives of the Bards’ College. There was a wide variety of subjects at his disposal, from the written arts to the performing arts, to visual arts. History, geography, religious studies, mythology, philosophy…. All these subjects were offered here, and more. He was almost disappointed to see that the major magic schools’ teachings were _not_ on offer here, but perhaps it was a good thing. There was, however, a short course on using Alteration magic to capture images onto enchanted pages or tablets. It was still in its early stages of experimenting, and mages were encouraged to take it to expand upon the new field and improve the current, limited knowledge it consisted of. There were only two names listed under the subject so far, and Tar wasn’t sure he was willing to delve into Alteration – it _had_ been one of his stronger subjects when he was younger, and compared to Destruction, it was a much more innocent branch of magic, but he wasn’t interested in experimenting. Not yet, anyway.

So he took a copy of the subject lists and left the busy building to sit in the cool air outside, choosing a spot at the very back of the amphitheater to watch the performers practice and learn.

He planned to go up to the Temple of the Eight later, and have one of the healers there tend to his thigh – after all, he suspected the stitches would need to be removed at some stage. There was a cool breeze lifting from the ocean below, and Tar enjoyed the scent of the salty air. It was… _different_ … to the scent of Alinor’s shores; colder, more biting, perhaps.

“So I see you’ve returned from your dungeon-delving,” a young man’s voice interrupted Tawarthion’s thoughts. He turned to look up at the voice, and offered a small smile. It was the dark-haired Imperial who had guided him on his first visit to the College. The Imperial held out a hand. “Neros, Actor, Playwright, Poet, Lyricist. In the making,” he added with a grin.  
Tar grinned back, grasping his hand firmly before releasing. “Tawarthion, as-of-yet an undecided student here.”  
Neros laughed, sitting down next to the mer. “I can understand the dilemma – so many subjects to choose from, so few to take at a time. Though,” he pointed a finger at Tar, “you have the advantage of a very long life to learn it all in.” Neros turned to face the bards below, smiling and shaking his head as one fumbled with her words. “Word has it you returned with the verse, and that you have more to tell than just getting lost in a barrow and attacked by skeevers.”  
“There was quite a bit more to it, yes,” Tar conceded. How much did the average person in Skyrim know about what truly lay within those forgotten depths?  
“You wouldn’t have happened to run into some draugr, would you?”

Tawarthion turned to stare at the Imperial, who kept his pale features carefully blank. “You’ve been into old ruins like that before.”  
“I may have.”  
“And you wonder if there have been others who faced the undead, not made by Necromancers.”  
“Perhaps.”  
Tawarthion sighed, straightening with a wry grin. “Draugr provide a unique challenge compared to zombies.”  
Neros chuckled next to him “Yes, they do indeed.”

After that, the conversation faded as both paid more attention to the students below. They watched the actors improvise, the Master of Performance Arts interrupt and guide, the singers practice their chords and the musicians each playing their own tunes. It was quite a cacophony, but an oddly soothing one for Tar.

“So, what subjects appeal to you, Tawarthion?” Neros asked quietly.  
“Well… poetry, for one. History, possibly something concerning the Nordic culture and religious studies, and mythology. And… anything relating to the ‘Word Walls’ the ancient Nords built.”  
Neros turned to look at Tar. “You’ll be keeping fit, then. Not a single one of those classes will be close together in the building,” he smiled. “And you’ll need to acquaint yourself with Helga Thrice-Versed.”  
“I’ve heard her mentioned earlier – she is a researcher on these ‘Word Walls’, correct?” Tar checked.  
“She theorizes that they are actually more than walls with random markings, yes. I saw her and Giraud talk about a possible research expedition to find all the Walls and see what was written on them, if anything at all. I’ve never seen her look so excited before. It’s actually fear-inspiring.” Tar glanced at his companion with a raised brow. Neros merely smirked. “She looks like a bear and sounds like a mouse. Come, administration will close soon for the day, so you should sign up while it’s still open. I’ll walk you,” Neros stood, turning to walk back into the building. “Will you be staying at the College?”  
“Eventually, yes, I suppose I will. But for now, I have alternate accommodation.” How much could he really divulge about his relationship to the Thalmor? Not many seemed affected by the change, but then, he hadn't been in the city these past few days. And he knew that some Nords were more than displeased about the terms of the White-Gold Concordat: after all, they had lost a patron god.

“Neros, can I ask you something that could be considered a controversial question?”  
“If I am homosexual?” Neros grinned over his shoulder.  
Tawarthion balked at the returning question. “I – uhm, well, no –”  
“Relax!” Neros laughed, stopping and turning to clap Tawarthion on the shoulder. “I was yanking your chain. This is Skyrim, not Cyrodiil – the only thing controversial here is magic,” he smiled, then tilted his head and amended, “And the ban of Talos worship, but I can’t really say I’m religious, so it means nothing to me. Speak freely, Tawarthion.”

Tar sighed, then asked quietly, “What are your views on the Thalmor, and those associated with them?”  
Neros gave him a long sidelong look. “Well, as with all things, I believe there is good and bad within any organization. I believe their ban on Talos worship is flawed, but I can also understand why they wish to enforce it. I’ve… heard some things, though, about what they do to their prisoners and people of interest,” he turned to walk again, slowly this time, his head bowed in thought. “It’s best not to be involved with them in any way, but I don’t believe that those who know people within the Thalmor should be grouped as one of them. It’s not fair.”

Tawarthion nodded, falling into step next to the Imperial. “Then again,” Neros grinned brightly, “Life isn't fair, so we can’t really complain.”  
Tar chuckled. “Indeed so, indeed so.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

The mess hall was busy, with all the bards, skalds, professors and new students gathering at almost the same time. Neros had left Tawarthion once Helga Thrice-Verse shoved the fine-boned man out of the way, opting to keep his head rather than his place.

And looking at the woman sitting in front of him now, Tawarthion understood why Neros said she looked like a bear. She was tall, broad – almost manly, even, compared to what Tawarthion had seen – with small, dark eyes shining with intelligence. Her pale hair was short, just long enough to tie into a low pony at the nape of her neck.

The mer expected a deep, rough voice to match her appearance. “So. You're the one Master Giraud says can read the Word Walls.”  
Tar blinked several times. Her voice was soft, sweet – the most feminine voice he’d heard since he went north of Bruma. “I… am….”  
“Good. I read the copy of your notes you made for Master Giraud, and I find it quite fascinating. That particular phrase comes from Dead Men’s Respite? Mark it on my map,” she slapped a map onto the table, quickly unrolling it and turning it to Tawarthion, handing him a piece of charcoal.

Tar cleared his throat, wiped his hands on his breeches, the stitches on his thigh pulling slightly when he shifted. _Another three days,_ he thought, taking the charcoal and marking the area he had found the barrow, and briefly describing the surroundings and path to Dead Men’s Respite. Helga nodded along, turning the map to scan it quickly before rolling it up again. “Excellent. I’ll let you know what I find when I find anything. You’ve got one of those fancy elven names, right?”  
“I am Tawarthion, yes. You are Helga Thrice-Verse?”  
“Oh, you know who I am. This makes things easier. Good. Tawarthion? I’m saying it right? Don’t you elves have nicknames or something shorter to work with…?” she shook her head and stood. “Enjoy the College, I’ll bring anything I find to you to look over as well.”

And with that, she walked away, not bothering to wait for his reply to her question.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Tar didn’t have much time to say his farewells when morning came, only briefly stopping when Viarmo shouted his well-wishes from across the hall, telling Tar to come back with an epic. Neros had already left for class, and Lemar was neck-deep in diplomatic work, and to his eyes with Ancano. Tawarthion bought a seat on the next cart down to Karthwasten. No sane driver was going anywhere near Markarth: word of the Nordic militia had traveled ahead of Tawarthion's return to Solitude.

The journey south may not have been as pleasant as the journey north, but it was far more exciting for Tar. He was nearing a place, an event, that would make history! Regardless of the risk, he wanted to be there. Perhaps, he would even be lucky enough to meet Ralof again. He’d like to ask the young Nord more about the Forsworn, and the city of Markarth, and how they planned to infiltrate the city. Although, he supposed that would be the Captain’s domain, and the bear of a man hadn't seemed eager to take on an Altmer for traveling company, let alone anything else.

The mer eased himself out of his musings as Karthwasten came into sight. Dusk fell sooner in the mountains, and many who were merely passing through to Rorikstead were grateful for the respite from the hard seats and uneven roads. Tar made a mental note to invest in a sturdy horse from a good breeder. His first stop was to book a room for himself at the inn, before his fellow travelers arrived and rooms would have to be shared. Tar spent some time talking to the innkeep, trying to find out as much as he could about the Forsworn and his journey further south to Markarth.

Most of the locals seemed to think he was a fool for running right into the heart of danger, regardless of which side they supported. Leave the fighting to the soldiers, and go to Markarth after the dust settled, they advised with a dark look. But they marked his map with points of interest and points to avoid on the road into the city. Blind Cliff Cave seemed to be the worst of his troubles; and provided that the miners weren’t hostile, he could probably make an easy stop there around noon. Salvius farm, if it wasn’t already occupied by the Eastmarch militia, would offer him a place to sleep in exchange for some help around the farm. It seemed fair to Tar.

Both the general trader and the blacksmith recognized Tawarthion when he stopped by to purchase potions and find out about a set of steel armor for himself. Sadly, there weren’t pieces even remotely close to his size and build, and Tar didn’t want to wait for a suit to be forged for himself. No; he’d deal with that in Solitude at a later stage. He did take the blacksmith’s suggestion, though, to buy a steel greatsword as an extra means of protection along the way. The Breton showed him a few basic stances and swings, then sent Tar on his way.

The steel was an uncomfortably soothing weight, both in his hands and on his back. But he wanted to have something extra in case he met with trouble on the road – his magicka was almost back to normal. He breathed in the cool, night mountain air, and headed for the inn.

 

* * * * * * *

 

The road down to Markarth was a beautiful one, even in the pre-dawn, cold stillness. The river ran swift and cheerful to Tawarthion’s left as he traveled west, the mountains and cliffs soaring high on both sides. Trees were sparse, and the grass was short but green so close to the river. Mist hung in the air, roiling and wisping its way deeper into the mountains as the sun slowly crawled up the side of the mountains. Tar didn’t meet any people or animals until nearly midday, when a trio of wild goats skittered away up the mountain when he dropped his pack for a brief rest and to check his map.

“Traveler! You're welcome to join us for lunch, if you like!”

Tawarthion looked up the cliff to his right. A Breton man with a pickaxe waved, then pointed further ahead. “The main building’s just down that-a-way; we’ll meet you there!”  
The high elf smiled. “Thank you, sir!”  
“No need for formalities! We’re simple miners, always willing to help out a traveler in exchange for some news from the outside world!” the last comment drew rowdy laughter from several other voices.

Tawarthion snatched his pack and followed the road down to the main building. It was a small building, built from solid logs and a thatched roof. The miner who had called out to Tar threw open the door, and quickly set about preparing lunch for the team of miners following.

Lunch was simple; a few loaves of bread with a chicken stew. The miners, a mix of Nord and Breton men, were hearty company and glad to see a traveler bringing news while they worked their shifts for the next few weeks. They told the mer about the militias travelling through to Markarth, many hoping that, regardless of who won, that their families and friends would be alright, and that the siege would pass quickly. They sent Tawarthion on his way with a well-wish and a promise to stop at the mine again when he returned home.

 

* * * * * * *

 

The majority of the Eastmarch soldiers were camped all along the road once Tawarthion neared Salvius Farm. The sight of so many Nords in full Hold armor was quite an impressive sight, even in the dusk light. Tar stopped at the outskirts of the camp, taking in the sight with a deep breath and hoisting his pack up higher.

“Ta-warth-thion?” a young Nordic voice struggled with his name.  
“Ralof…?” Tar squinted at the blond Nord. He smiled when Ralof grinned, quickly stepping forwards to catch the mer in a quick but rib-crushing embrace. Tar blinked at the unexpected familiarity, barely composing himself before Ralof noticed the steel greatsword on his back. “And you bought yourself some steel! May I?” he held out his hands with a glint in his eye.

Tawarthion nodded, quickly handing the blade to Ralof. The Nord boy gripped the blade reverently, carefully examining the blade in the twilight. “It’s well-forged, and balanced…” he muttered, switching his grip on the blade as he stepped back to swing the greatsword a few times. Tar watched curiously, taking in the stance Ralof took. “It’s an excellent blade!” he glanced at Tar with a huge grin. “You’re lucky to be able to afford such a blade…. Look out for Skyforge Steel when you stop by Whiterun in the future. The best steel in all of Tamriel!” Ralof swung the blade a few more times, then held out the grip to Tawarthion.

The elf nodded his thanks, taking back the greatsword. “You seem comfortable with the blade. Could you teach me some of what you know?”  
Ralof looked shocked for a moment. “Ah, sure! Yes. But, what brings you here?”  
Tar spread his arms. “All of this. As a new bard in Skyrim’s Bard’s College, it is my great honor and duty to be here to record the outcome of this siege. Besides,” he added when he fell into step next to Ralof as the Nord led the way through the camp. “I’ve spent too much time away from the happenings of the world. It’s time I involved myself, and this is where I choose to start.”  
“Then you’ve come to the right place! We’ll make history here, and take back the city from the Forsworn!”

Tawarthion grinned at the Nord youth’s enthusiasm. It was almost infectious….

“Ralof! Stop gossiping like a fishmonger’s wife and get to cleaning armor and sharpening blades and – who’s that with you?” Captain Galmar squinted in the darkening light.  
“Captain Galmar!” Ralof jerked, straightening with a nearly-clumsy salute. “Sir, this is Tawar-thion, a bard from the College. He’s come to record what happens here for the Edda,” Ralof glanced between his captain and the mer.

Galmar nodded slowly, then gestured at both to come closer. “Tell me, Elf, how do you plan to tell this siege? Two barbarians fighting tooth and nail over a hovel in the mountains, hm?”  
Tar’s brow furrowed. “I plan to tell it as I see it: a Nord militia fighting to reclaim a city that was taken by the Forsworn. More than that I cannot guess; I do not know much about the Forsworn or their reasons and purposes for claiming Markarth. Nor do I know the reasons behind why a Jarl –” Tar fumbled over the unfamiliar title “– from so far east would come to the aid of a city on the other side of the country. The only way I can tell this story as it now stands, is to say that the Nords of Skyrim have united to expel the Forsworn from Markarth.”  
Galmar’s eyes narrowed dangerously at Tar. Then he snorted, a half-grin spreading over his face. “I expected worse from you, Elf. You’ll need to talk to Ulfric, but don’t expect a warm welcome or detailed plans. You’re still Altmer, even if you say you’re a bard. Come,” the bear of a Nord turned away.

Tawarthion shook his head slightly at the Nord’s racism, but he’d take the scraps offered to him. Proving his worth in Skyrim wouldn’t come from words alone, it seemed.

They wound their way through the steadily darkening camp, fires sprouting everywhere to keep the cold away, and make the force seem much larger than it was.

Not that Jarl Ulfric’s force was meager. Not even close.

Picking up snatches of conversation as they passed, Tawarthion gathered that the men gathered here were extremely loyal to their liege, and from the hushed and awed tones of the men and women describing him, Tar imagined a great and experienced warrior-king. Tar’s imagination ran wild with thoughts of a man taller than Captain Galmar, with Ralof’s fair hair, long and braided with an impressive bread to finish off the Nord Jarl’s imposing face.

“Show your respect for the Jarl, Elf. This is a trying time. Wait here while I announce you.” Galmar held up a hand outside a larger, but still modest tent, rapping his knuckles on the wooden supports before entering.

Ralof looked ready to collapse next to the elf. “Ralof?”  
The blond boy jumped. “Y-yes?”  
“Tell me a little about the correct way to address a Jarl. I have no wish to offend him.”  
Ralof gaped. “You really aren't like the rest of your kind, are you?”  
Tar grinned. “Somewhat different, yes.”  
“Well… typically you’d only need to bow your head, and acknowledge the Jarl. Like this, for example,” Ralof bowed his head, adding, “Jarl Ulfric. That’s about it.”  
“I see; much more modest than the customs in Cyrodiil. And there are no other terms of address?” Ralof looked confused. “Never mind, then. Thank you.”  
“What’s it like in the Summerset Isles? Your customs,” Ralof amended.  
“Much more formal and complicated,” Tar half-smirked. “I sometimes feel like I have disrespected another when using the customs they uphold.”  
“Really?” Ralof’s eyes widened.  
“Mm,” Tawarthion nodded. “I also have to remember that what others consider correct I would find horrifyingly disrespectful,” the mer offered a smile. “I’m glad I left the Isles when I did; the world has so much to offer on all fronts.”

Ralof’s mouth opened to reply when Galmar stepped out, holding the flaps open. “You may enter, Elf. Jarl Ulfric will see you.”  
Tawarthion nodded, stepping past. “Thank you.”

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was not at all what Tawarthion had expected.

Instead of the towering, bear of a man with long golden hair, an impressive beard and possibly even a few facial scars, Tawarthion saw someone very different.

The only other person inside the tent was a tall young man quickly filling out with the large Nord muscles Tawarthion had seen. A short but neat beard was already showing signs of Tar’s imagined promise. But those dark blue eyes were the eyes of an old man, one who had seen and experienced too much to be content with the world passing by. Tawarthion blinked, remembering himself. “Jarl Ulfric,” he bowed, rising slowly.

The young Jarl watched Tar with wary eyes. “Galmar says you're the bard from the College.”  
“Yes, Jarl. I am here to record the events of the siege.”  
“I wasn’t aware of another High Elf bard aside from Viarmo.”  
“I’ve recently joined, Jarl Ulfric.”  
“What was your quest?”

Tawarthion paused. Despite being only a few years older than Ralof, Ulfric was proving to have a mind for strategy and interrogation. “I was sent to retrieve the original King Olaf’s Verse, from Dead Men’s Respite. The verse is currently being restored by Giraud.”

Ulfric nodded slowly. “As a Bard of the College, I will speak to you of this siege. You will not know the plans in advance, you will not be allowed to partake in the battle. You are here only to observe, your opinion unwanted. This is a soldier’s territory, and you don’t have the look of a fighter around you. Accept these terms, and you will have access to my men to talk to them.”  
“They are more than reasonable, Jarl Ulfric,” Tar bowed his head again.

Ulfric nodded. “Very well, let us begin.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Tawarthion had the feeling that several, crucial details were being omitted in Ulfric’s account, but he didn’t question it just yet. So far, he had heard of how this land had been a part of Skyrim since Tiber Septim had conquered the known world, and peace had reigned between the Reachmen and the Nords, with Nordic rule instilled upon the mountain-city. This ended when Legionnaires were recalled from Markarth to fight in the Great War, and several Reachmen rose up and seized the city in 4E174, nearly two years ago.

The uprising had gained a larger-than-expected support from local Bretons, and the city fell.

The Empire, with the aid of Jarl Hrolfdir of Markarth, raised a militia with the help of Jarl Ulfric’s superior forces to retake the city, and thus the Siege of Markarth began. As the leaders of the militia currently saw it, morale in Markarth was breaking. In a few more months the city would be ripe for the taking.

And Tawarthion would be here to watch it all.


End file.
